The Poetic Testimony Of Thomas Poock

Earthen Vessel 1851:

Dear friend in the gospel, you ask for a line, 

The which I will send you as I can get time; 

And this is the subject on which I shall dwell—

To write of my Jesus, who sav’d me from hell.

I often am led of my history to think;

And while I remember, I shudder and shrink.

My birth was all sin, my nature all foul,

It makes me oft weep, ofttimes do I howl.

In childhood I was of my mother bereft;

Ah! then to the mercy of man was I left;

But man, he forsook me, regardless of claim,

A helpless, a friendless outcast I became.

The workhouse receiv’d me, and there was I found 

By an uncle, who travell’d many miles over ground;

He took me, he sooth’d me, he clothed me all o’er,

He fed me most kindly, and doctor’d my sore.

My dear mother’s sister’s poor heart was most broke,

The scene was distressing, so sharp was the stroke; 

But short was my stay ‘neath this hospital roof, 

Of different treatment I soon had a proof:

To London I went, and such treatment receiv’d, 

Was I but to relate it, ‘twould scarce be believ’d: 

But that is all past, and the whole I forgive,

And pray so to die, as well so to live.

To sea I was sent, to meet rough, hard, and cold, 

Although, at that time, not eleven years old;

But there the good Lord did a father provide,

Who kept me, and taught me, and prov’d a kind guide.

Thus three years on ship-board, my country did leave,

And the scenes which I saw, made my heart often grieve. 

And though amidst powder and shot I have been,

I could not be kill’d, as plainly is seen:

Preserved abroad, I again was brought home,

To declare to the world what for me He hath done. 

When sixteen years old, was convinced of sin,

I saw and I felt what a wretch I had been;

What to do, where to go, I now could not tell,

For by day and by night I much feared hell;

The heavens were black, my conscience opprest, 

My soul, day and night, quite a stranger to rest;

I teared to sleep, was tormented awake,

And tempted I’ve been a razor to take,

The Gadarenes got me—to work I did go—

I pray’d, and on parchment I wrote solemn vow; 

My prayers not answer’d—my vows were all broke, 

I now must be damned, ’twill be righteous stroke: 

Each world is against me, because of my sin,

In wrath and hell-torments I must shortly be in; 

My case is most dreadful, O what must I do?

I could not to any my wretchedness shew,

My legal class-leader such lessons did give,

I could not perform them, which made me to grieve; 

For I thought very highly of his zealous plan, 

Concluding that he was a most holy man.

Just as I concluded my soul must be lost,

A bookstall I saw, as a street I had cross’d,

My eye caught a book, which open did lay,

I took it to read, though I feared to pray;

And as I perused, I swallow’d the whole,

The piece was ‘Hart’s Dialogue with a Poor Soul;’

To tell what I felt I’m sure I cannot,

I sang, cried, and prayed, at my happy lot:

I saw my salvation was full, rich, and free,

I went not to Jesus, he came thus to me—

“O, poor wretched soul, fear not,” he did say, 

“Your sins cast you down, I took them away;

I bore them entire—not one is behind,

You’ll find me a Saviour exceedingly kind;

Come out as my sheep, and hear my sweet voice,

I make them all free, I make them rejoice:

Your doing and vowing will not make you good! 

Most clean you shall be, through my shedding blood;

My doing has satisfied all in thy stead,

Believe and receive me, the law-fulfilling Head; 

My righteousness take—this freely I give,

I lov’d thee, I bought thee, I now bid thee live; 

My love everlasting was fix’d on thy soul,

In kindness I drew thee, thou now art made whole.”

Such love, life, and light now filled my heart, 

I gladly from all my old rubbish did part; 

And wonder’d to find redemption’s great plan, 

Was all of God’s grace to vile filthy man,

But O what a foe did I find in that man,

Whose name I receiv’d, when bound by his plan!

He call’d me a sinner of wonderful kind,

And said I was stubborn, rebellious, and blind;

And left me, at last, where he saw I did stand,

And of my foul blood he wash’d clean his hand.

How dreadful the pride of a pharisee’s soul—

For they never feel sick, but always seem whole!

But thanks to the Spirit, who gives me to feel

The need of my Jesus, who only can heal;

I love to speak of him, and to him likewise,

For him above all things I surely must prize:

But though of his children of all I am worst,

I still on his merits am helped to trust;

In him all the glories of Godhead I see,

The love of Jehovah to poor sinful me!

And though, for my follies, I oft catch the rod, 

Yet still, still he is my unchangeable God!

Of His mercy in life and in death I will tell—

How he sav’d even me from sin and from hell.”

Believe me ever to remain 

Your’s in the Lord,

Thomas Poock

May 7th, 1851